Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Mr. Streeter,” Buddy said as he approached, holding out his hand. A grin was plastered across a face aged by Camel non-filters, sun, and house bourbon. “Howdy.”

  Streeter got out of his car and stood tall to accentuate his full six-foot-one-inch frame and all two hundred twenty pounds. He dwarfed the contractor, who now stopped a couple of feet away, his smile fading. Streeter glared into Buddy’s rheumy eyes. A whiff of alcohol, perspiration, and fear came from the little guy. Looking at the mass of man in front of him and the anger in his eyes, Buddy sensed that the sale was in trouble.

  “These are for you,” Streeter said as he pulled out the papers and handed them over. Buddy took them, his mouth silently opening. “Compliments of Clara,” Streeter continued. “And if I ever hear of you pulling a stunt like that again, I’ll be disappointed. You understand? Very disappointed. I’m sure you don’t want that.”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the smaller man, Streeter got back into his car. When he stopped at the end of the driveway, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Buddy was frozen in the same spot, his mouth still open, staring at the garnishment order in his hand. He stood there like that for a long time after the Buick left.

  As Streeter drove back to the renovated church he shared with Frank, his anger cooled. By the time he walked into the first-floor office, he was almost cheerful. That feeling didn’t last. On the desktop was a note on a yellow legal pad. It read: “Street, Carol Irwin called. I gather someone’s trying to kill her. She’d like you to discourage him from doing that. If you get a chance, give her a holler. F.”

  TWO

  At first it reminded her of a small, fuzzy hand moving under its own power. It had a certain choppy grace. Carol almost laughed, but instead she let out a nervous snort. This was one huge tarantula. She’d never thought she’d see one up this close. Being a tax lawyer, why would she? Carefully, she looked at the spider while holding the jar up to the light. Its hair seemed so soft. Touchable. Suddenly it jerked, rolled itself into the shape of a cue ball, and turned away from her. Indifferent or maybe just trying to hide. Carol put the jar down and stepped back from her desk. Slowly, she brushed her hands together like they were sticky.

  Between the note now in her briefcase—an idiotic poem, actually—and the tarantula, the message seemed obvious. That being she was a dead woman. The spider wouldn’t get her. It wasn’t meant to. But the man who presumably sent it would. He being Kevin Swallow. And he’d take his own sweet time doing it.

  Early that morning, Carol collected the spider and the poem, and called the police. The two uniforms took forever getting to her apartment in central Denver. Typical, she thought as they strutted through her cluttered home, frowning. Judging. Lingering over the full ashtrays, the overflowing clothes hamper, and the unmade bed. Dirty dishes stacked nervously in the sink. All the while subtly scoping an aloof and chain-smoking Carol Irwin. They tried to be cool, but she made them right away. Then she spent an hour answering their questions. The young officer with thinning blond hair and a closely trimmed beard came on as particularly concerned.

  “Maybe we could get together for coffee sometime,” he told her just before they left. “We could go over your case and discuss the best way to approach it.” He tried to hedge his move by sounding official. Clearing his throat, he ran an unsteady hand over his receding hairline. “Tactical-wise, that is.”

  “Tactical-wise, huh?” Carol studied him. “How old are you, Peaches?”

  “Twenty-seven.” He now tried to sound loose but could only manage shaky. “And my name’s Jeff.” As an afterthought he added, “Barrows.”

  “Twenty-seven. That makes you what? About nineteen in actual guy years. Maturity-wise, that is. Call me when you make captain.” Carol disliked all cops, regardless of rank. Still, he looked so disappointed she added in a softer tone, “Look, Jeff Barrows, I’m involved with someone. Don’t take it personal.”

  When they left, she called and gave her message to Frank. Streeter got back to her just before noon and they agreed to meet at three. Carol had been engaged to him almost seven years ago and they were still friends. Or, rather, they became friends after the breakup. Their separation was brutal, accusatory, and tear-drenched. The tears and accusations were hers, but neither of them had behaved well. All that was history now. Not that they were close. More like the exchange-discount-birthday-cards-and-stilted-phone-calls, have-dinner-twice-a-year kind of friends.

  Driving to her office, Streeter was skeptical. When she’d asked him if he’d do a job for her, the stutter of crying burst through the receiver like gunfire. Carol’s tears. They always got to him. She wept unlike anyone he’d ever known, seemingly on command. “I swear, that woman cries at card tricks,” Streeter had once told Frank. “I’ve never seen so much liquid coming from one little person.”

  Could he work for her? They’d done all right in the old days, though he was never impressed with her legal skills. Because Colorado has no licensing for PIs, Carol used the ex–football player as an investigator back when she was still practicing criminal law. He’d hunt down witnesses or do interviews where there might be trouble. Just the intensity in his deep-brown eyes and the bulk of his shoulders and forearms kept people from getting out of line. Not that he’d ever hurt anyone unnecessarily. Still, Streeter had plenty of backbone. You couldn’t deal with the kind of punks he routinely handled and not make smoke once in a while.

  “I’m glad you made it,” she said, showing him into her office located in a so-called Denver Square: a large, two-story, turn-of-the-century house. It was about four blocks east of the state capitol. “I might have sounded unhinged on the phone, but cut me a little slack, okay? It’s not every day someone threatens to kill me.”

  Streeter knew that Carol was a woman of intense feelings and random mood swings. Her being “unhinged” under these circumstances was no surprise. All he said was, “Let’s hope not.” They gave each other a perfunctory hug. Her perfume hit him in a soft, warm wave. It was a new brand for Carol and he couldn’t quite place it.

  He sat down across the desk from her. Though he hadn’t visited the office in years, it was as he remembered. Messy places never seem to change. It reminded him of a dorm room for law students cramming for finals. There was one window, partially blocked by thick accordion file folders on the sill. Files also lined the floor along a wall. Stacks of legal papers competed for space with an ashtray and half-full Diet Pepsi cans on the desk. The credenza behind her was crammed with manila folders, office supplies, Styrofoam coffee cups, and books.

  Carol herself was a sharp contrast to the chaos around her. She was dressed in an elegant white silk blouse with a short black skirt, and black nylons and pumps. Only bloodshot eyes and nervous hands revealed any stress. Just like her to stay gorgeous no matter how much her insides twitched. She had long chestnut hair, streaked handsomely with gray. Those few strands were the only signs of approaching middle age. Her eyes were dark brown and her lashes, thanks to a plastic surgeon she’d once dated, were a permanent, thick black. Although educated and professional, Carol looked more like a sultry cocktail waitress. She was pushing thirty-seven and shapely by virtue of good genes, not a healthy life-style. There was a subtle, smoky sexiness about her. The only imperfection was the scar from a deep cut on her left hand, which she tended to keep down at her side.

  She had cold, cynical street smarts after years of representing crazies and thugs in a criminal-justice system whose treatment of her ranged from condescending to flirty to pissed. Still, there was a frail bitterness just below her surface. Streeter had seen it often. Unappealing, it could quickly and inexplicably erupt into rage.

  “Are you still playing Trivial Pursuit?” she asked, referring to one of his hobbies. Her voice sounded snotty and she immediately regretted it.

  “You’re still playing lawyer,” he shot back.

  They were both quiet for a moment. Carol spoke first. “Truce. I didn’t mean to say it like that. Really. This threat has
me pretty wired. Let’s start over, okay?”

  He nodded. “Someone wants to kill you? Just relax and take it from the top. Who, what, when, where, why. Tell me everything.”

  Carol grabbed a cigarette from a crumpled pack of Merit 100s on her desk and lit it. She sat back and drew the smoke into her lungs like it was pure oxygen. When she exhaled, she leaned forward. “I’m pretty sure I know the who. A killer I represented five, six years ago. Kevin Swallow. I know for a fact he’s murdered several people over the years. I represented him on a double homicide. He was convicted but he got out of prison on a technicality. He blames me for having to go there in the first place and now he wants revenge. That’s the why.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I talked to another client of mine who was in prison with Kevin down in Cañon City. Evidently he told the client about his plans some time ago. He knew it would get back to me. Half the fun for Kevin is my worrying about it before he strikes.”

  Streeter nodded and adjusted himself in his seat. “How’d he threaten you?”

  “He left a note and a calling card. That crazy bastard put this in my mailbox.” She reached into a side desk drawer and pulled out the jar with the tarantula. “He’s always been a freak for creepy animals like snakes and lizards.”

  Streeter held the jar up near his face. “It’s called a rose-hair tarantula. They’re not very poisonous, but I bet it got your attention.” He set the spider on her desk.

  “I’m impressed. All that reading you do pays off.” She nodded. “It sure did get my attention. There was a note, too. A stupid poem. He really means business, Street.”

  “What went wrong with his case?”

  “He thinks I blew it for him. See, he was charged with two homicides for a car bomb he put in a Mercedes belonging to a local orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Theodore Mallory. Teddy Mallory. It was big news back in ’90.”

  “I read about it. Some kind of domestic battle, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s the one. The doctor’s wife hired Kevin to take Teddy out of the game. He was about to file for divorce and leave her flat broke. She didn’t care much for that. Unfortunately for her, she told Kevin she didn’t want to hear any of the details. When he planted the bomb he didn’t know she’d be in the car with the good doctor that day. Two counts of murder one. He might’ve gotten away with it except that a neighbor saw him screwing around with the car and followed Kevin to where he was parked. The old man got a license-plate number. One thing led to another and eventually he made Kevin in a lineup.

  “I got the case on a court appointment. Amazingly, Swallow had no prior felony convictions—arrests but no convictions—so he could take the stand. Juries hate it when a defendant doesn’t testify. The only reason you don’t let a client take the stand is prior felonies. And the only way the DA can introduce them is to impeach a defendant once he testifies. Juries hate defendants with priors even more than they hate ones who don’t testify. But in the end, Kevin didn’t take the stand. At least not in the second trial.”

  “Second trial?”

  “Yes. The judge separated the cases into two trials. Kevin took the stand in the first one but he was found guilty. Now he had a felony conviction. I appealed, but while we were waiting, the second trial started. If Kevin testified in that trial, the first conviction would get in, so I kept him off. He was found guilty again. Then it got weird. He received life for the second murder. Later, the first conviction was overturned. Then Kevin got a new lawyer, who appealed the second conviction due to incompetent representation. The incompetency came from my not letting him take the stand. It was a good decision at the time, but when the court overturned, technically Kevin had no priors. He could’ve testified. My not letting him was grounds for a new trial. By then the old neighbor had died and the deputy DA was crippled in a car accident near Aspen. Both counts went down the tubes and now Kevin’s free with no felonies on his sheet.”

  “So you really did the right thing and his new lawyer twisted it into a technicality to spring him.” Streeter shook his head. “Swallow can’t blame you for that. Hell, he should thank you. You gave him grounds for the appeal that got him out.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Carol said. “But Kevin didn’t like going to prison. All he thought about was revenge on anyone he blamed for putting him there. He’s a sadistic, cold-blooded killer, and if he wants to get you, nothing’ll stop him. Nothing.”

  “He’s that tough?”

  “He’s that resourceful. Killing from a distance is his specialty. Like that Mallory car bomb. ‘I got a long reach when it comes to that kind of shit,’ is how he put it to me. Inarticulate but effective. He’s a wizard with booby traps and planting bombs.”

  Streeter considered that while Carol smoked in silence. “So police protection might not be too helpful,” he said. “That’s why you wanted to see me?”

  “It is indeed.” She put out her cigarette and studied him. She’d always liked the way he carried himself. Streeter was forty-three, but looked to be in his mid-thirties. He slouched, but in a way that made him seem loose and confident. His hair was thick and brown, and he wore it long and straight back with short sideburns. The ends fell neatly a couple of inches over his shirt collar. His cheekbones were pronounced and high, his skin was tan. She’d always thought their children would have been exotic. He also had endless sources and more street connections than most cops. “That’s exactly why,” she continued. “I’d like you to find this nut case. The cops will keep an eye on me, and I think we have a little time before he makes good on his threat.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Carol reached to her briefcase on the floor and pulled out a folded white paper. “This poem. Kevin likes thinking he’s clever.” She tossed the paper across her desk.

  Streeter picked up the paper and read:

  To err may be human but to forgive is absurd,

  You erred by a damned mile,

  And the jury got the last word,

  The others on the list will pay with their lives first,

  While you watch, pondering your fate,

  And end up paying—in death—the worst.

  “If he kills as well as he writes, you’re safe,” he said. He slid the paper back at her. “It’s like a depraved Burma-Shave ad. Who’re the others on the list?”

  “I guess he’s referring to the people who worked on his case. My investigators: Steve Gagliano and Brian Cullen. The deputy DA’s not worth the effort anymore, but the cop who arrested him is. His name’s Cleveland Watts and he’s a chauvinistic slob. He’s semiretired and dabbles at being a private eye. The police are calling everyone who had anything to do with the case and warning them.”

  “So he’s made up a hit list and you’re last. Why do you get to wait?”

  “Like I said, knowing Kevin, he wants me to suffer for a while.”

  “That part could be bogus to make you feel safe. He could come after you first.”

  “I doubt it. Kevin has a lot of faith in his abilities and he’s always been up front with me. Generally, he’s a pathological liar. Hell, in the Mallory case the cops talked him into taking a polygraph and he actually flunked his own name. Can you believe that? They asked if he was Kevin James Swallow and he said ‘Yeah.’ The needle showed he was lying. He just looked at the operator and said, ‘Well, who the hell do you want me to be?’ In some ways, Kevin doesn’t even know what reality is, but he was honest with me. I think he wants to impress me with how proficient he is.”

  “Proficient at killing? A Mark Chapman–Jodie Foster situation with a new twist.”

  “Sort of. He wants to let me know that he still has that long reach.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be? Any relatives? Friends? Job prospects?” Streeter stood up.

  “Friends? I doubt if he has any. No relatives that I know of, either, and he’s not in the job market. At least not for the kind of job you read about in the classifieds.” She be
nt over again and pulled a file folder from her briefcase. Then she stood up and handed it to him. “Not much, but that’s all that I have on Kevin. It’s old, from his trial. And he wasn’t paroled, so he’s not required to stay in touch with the state.”

  Streeter leafed through the file. “I’ll see what I can find out.” Then he glanced back at Carol. “You might consider getting out of town for a while, just to be safe.”

  “Maybe. Eventually. But I want to stick around for now.” She pulled a check from her top drawer and handed it to him. It was for three thousand dollars. “This should get you started. For your time and expenses. Let me know if you need more.”

  “Okay. How recent is this picture?” he asked as he looked at the small mug shot from the file. A deep frown distorted Kevin’s features.

  “It’s from when he was first booked into jail. He used to be quite handsome, but who knows how much he changed in prison? That’s the only picture anyone has.”

  With her standing next to him, Streeter again could smell her new perfume. It came to him: Calvin Klein’s Obsession. Looking at her now, he felt protective. Where women were concerned, Streeter always had a strong streak of chivalry. “Carol, I know we’ve had a tortured history together. Our breakup wasn’t easy on either of us. But I’d hate to see anything bad happen to you.”

  “I was hoping you’d feel that way, Street. Keep me posted.”

  THREE

  Cleveland Watts was a man of routines so stern, he made the Third Reich seem laid back and goosey. At 7:45 A.M. each weekday he walked into his sparse PI office. He’d worked there the past two years with all the clock-watching rigidity of a retired public employee on a solid pension. Four hours of paper shuffling and phone calls and it was time for lunch. Then he’d hit the streets for an afternoon of “field work.” At five o’clock he’d head over to Washington Park for a stroll. Finally, at six straight up, he’d go home for dinner. His weekends shook loose a little, but not much.